Draw out the Light
by Alex Lee Rowan
Summary: (1990 Based) Amèlie Bellerose is haunted; she jumps at every noise, paranoia swirling through her. A ghost of her past has been tracking her since the day she walked out his door. However, when she is saved by a mysterious figure in the darkness Amelie finds herself feeling safe despite the threat at her heels. Everything is put at stack when he returns to claim what is his.
1. Prologue

Slowly, time trickled by, having little or no meaning. Morning awoke every day, stretching across the horizon in a beautiful array of colors, always sinking back into the depths of her tomb when night melted in around her. In a flat nestled on the outskirts of the busy city of Paris, a man stood alone, a lifetime of mysterious in the folds of his midnight black cape. A frown played across his lips, bright blue eyes on the setting sun perching on the horizon and giving off the last rays of its daily reign. Sighing softly, the man turned, picking his way down the hall to where the flickering of a candle could be seen in the sitting quarters. Looking around the room as he entered, the man's eyes settled upon his father, reading on the chair closest to the window, the page of his book bathed in silvery light from the moon shining through the window.

The other man turned his attention from the book in his hands to the masked man at the far end of the room. "Erik," he greeted, offering the slightest of smiles, closing the book and keeping his place with his thumb.

Erik Carriere advanced into the sitting quarters, nodding to his father, going to the bookcase and letting his eyes sweep the contents. "Evening, father," his voice fell through the air lightly, his back to the older of the pair. Picking a rather large book from the case, the masked individual moved to the sofa, settling into it and propping the book up in his lap, opening it and losing himself in the worlds sprawled across the page. This was all rather strange, living in a normal home with his father, for Erik, considering he'd lived all of his life - up until this point - in the catacombs of the Paris Opera. It wasn't until that fateful night rolled around that his life had been turned upside down.

Christine Daae, the woman who still held a rather firm grip around his heart, had taken up the role of Marguerite in the opera's performance of Faust after her return to the opera after a series of events that involved Erik unmasking himself and showing her his face, locking her in his domain and her escape. Hearing her sweet voice, Erik had slipped from his lair into Box Five, where he joined the performance. In the end, the audience cheered, standing up to applaud them; but the moment was short lived. Upon being shot at, Erik swooped down, whisking Christine away to the roof with him, where Philippe de Chagny, the count, intercepted them. Erik had wished to kill the man, but Christine's begging had made him stop and save the count from falling to his doom.

However, that action seemed to have sealed the Phantom's own fate. Surrounded by police at all sides, Erik had turned his attention to his father, Gerard Carriere and ex-manager of the Populaire, who was armed with a gun of his own. Gerard, with quite a bit of difficulty, had taken the shot that sent his son falling from the roof of the Populaire and onto the ground before him, where Christine once more unmasked him and laid a gentle kiss on his forehead. Erik had faked death until the last of the police had left, opening his eyes to a very startled Gerard Carriere. After dressing his wound, Gerard had taken Erik to the flat he now owned in the outskirts and since then the two had lived there and still Erik wasn't used to waking up every morning surrounded by the white walls of his room.

Outside, the grey clouds that had blotted out the moon moments earlier let loose a steady stream of tears that hit the roof with a soothing plitter-platter. The dreary weather outside was quite close to Erik's mood as he tried to concentrate on the words on the pages he was reading, but ending up reading the same sentence over and over. He was thinking about what he usually did, Christine. He hadn't seen her at the opera, considering he attended each performance. To say the very least, that fact worried him just a bit. Was she still singing? She had to still be singing, it was ridiculous to think that she'd stop singing. But that appeared to have been what happened, unfortunately. He wondered if she had just left the Paris area, the thought saddening him a bit, and was singing somewhere else...living somewhere else with the count. That thought angered him slightly, for the count cared for nothing but beauty and although Christine was beautiful, that wasn't what had drawn Erik to her. Her voice had drawn him to her, but it was her kind soul that had sucked him in.

"Erik?"

Gerard's calm, edging on worried, voice broke Erik from his thoughts and the masked man glanced up, tearing his eyes away from the sentence he now had ingrained in his mind, and placing them on his father.

"Yes, father?" Erik's question perched on the air, as though unsure of why his name had been spoken. Watching the older of the two with eyes of bright sapphire, the masked man allowed a thin smile onto his lips.

Keeping his finger in the book as he shifted in his chair, Gerard Carriere frowned, easily seeing through his son's forced smile. "What is bothering you?" He asked. He could always tell when there was something on his son's mind, mainly because he did not turn the page while reading, which was something Erik did quite quickly. The older of the two knew very well how hard Christine's leaving had effected the younger; how could he not?

A sigh slid uneasily through Erik's lips as he looked down at the book in his hand, that same sentence running over and over through his head as a frown gracefully creased his masked forehead. For a while, a lengthy period of heavy silence fell over the pair; Erik watching his book and Gerard watching his son. Then at last, Erik spoke, "Christine hasn't been in any of the performances..." Looking up at his father, Erik's voice trailed off.

Gerard nodded slightly, frowning slightly, silently agreeing. "I have not heard anything of her whereabouts," he said, feeling somewhat helpless as he knew his son wished for some finality that Christine had really left and wasn't coming back.

Erik looked down, frowning. He wanted to ask if his father thought he'd ever see her again, he wanted to ask if his father thought she was doing alright, and he wanted, most of all, to ask if his father thought she was still singing. However, he didn't ask any of that, instead he just nodded, shifting and returning his gaze to the book. He didn't get far before closing it and bidding his father goodnight, heading down the hall to his own room. Sitting down on the bed, Erik glanced about the room, taking in the mess of compositions and sketches, a sigh slowly sliding through his lips.

"Oh, Christine..." he murmured to himself, reminiscing at the feeling of her lips against his forehead as he slipped the mask from his face and hiding it in his hands, the haunting memory of her angel's voice ringing through his head...


	2. Chapter 1: Rescued

Chapter One: Rescued

Paris, France, with its sparkling lights and dazzling buildings, rose into the sky, a skyscraper of massive proportions. A drizzle of gentle rain fell down upon the bustling city, chatter and clatter rising up like smoke. Beneath the late morning sun, a woman with strands of hair kissed by the son took easy steps through the light rain, her face blank but her heart racing in her chest, instincts telling her to run; that she should run and leave Paris behind as she had all those years ago.

But she did not leave, she continued down the lane towards the small flat she called home, breathing in and out slowly but surely.

Her fingers fumbled with the key, her hands never ceasing to tremor when old bouts of fear wrapped around her slim form. A breath caught in her throat and she struggled to keep the tears welling in her eyes away. She wasn't going to cry. He never allowed her to cry. It was a weakness in his eyes and there was no room for weakness in his eyes. Despite her best efforts to keep it at bay, a sob trickled forth from her lips, a broken piece of her twisted existence.

Slipping into the house, she closed the door behind her, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes, sliding down the length of the smooth wood and falling to a heap on the floor. Hiding her face in her hands, the woman took a few shallow breaths, attempting to calm the rapid racing of her heart. "You're fine," she murmured to herself, "you're fine, he's in Germany where you left him. He's not here. You're fine…" Her breath shook as she expelled it from her body, squeezing her eyes shut and running a finger across the scars lacing her body, biting at her lip to keep the pain from all those long years ago from her face.

She couldn't afford to think like that here. Not anymore. She had to make everyone believe she was over that; Sebastian especially. She couldn't allow him to think that she was still stuck in the past; even though that's exactly where she was; frozen in memories playing over and over in her mind, taunting her with their existence, mocking her with her tears and causing waves of self-loathing to crash over her again and again in an endless stream of gloom.

Amèlie Ravin Bellerose opened her eyes, staring into the distance before sighing and shaking her head, rising from her position on the floor and locking her door, a tremble passing through her body as the lock reverberated around the small flat. She leaned her palms against the door, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. There's no one here, she told herself, trying to stop the paranoia flowing through her. It's just the lock. There's nothing here. You're fine.

She couldn't afford to be thinking like that when she took up her new job, there would be creaking everywhere in the old building; she couldn't be jumping at each sound like it was someone creeping up on her. Because that was the one thing it wouldn't be. There was no way he'd find her here. He had probably already forgotten about her. Hopefully, the word buzzed through her and she winced.

Turning away from the now securely locked door, Amèlie slipped the key back around her neck, letting it nestled beneath her casual dress, the brass surface clink against the smooth gold and silver of her parents' wedding rings. Her heart clenched, as she pulled the chain up, cradling the tiny memories close to her. She swallowed, closing her eyes and pressing them to her heart, letting the cold burn into her for a moment before the heat of her skin chased it away and the rings were just another fragment of the past that she couldn't let go of. Sighing sadly, Amèlie replaced them to their rightful place and moved into the small flat, relief trickling through her when none of the disobedient boards creaked beneath her small amount of weight.

Lighting a candle to illuminate the darker corners of the house, Amèlie set to lighting up the gas lamps, content when no corner was left to the frightening grip of the shadows. Her eyes fell to the ticket on the desk. For years she'd been waiting for this, the chance to walk up those grand stairs to the Paris opera again. As a child, her father had taken her to the opera's opening show; Faust. For days afterward, she'd been dancing around humming to the music. She never got to go again, her parents' death got in the way of that. Now, here she was, staring at the ticket to the production of Faust, wondering if she'd made the right choice to do so. She wondered know if the memories with her father would be too painful to handle, biting into her lip and letting out a sigh. Too late now, a voice said in her head and she slowly found herself nodding.

"Too late now," she agreed to herself out loud.

The air was cool and nipped at his exposed skin despite the several layers of clothing he wore. Darkness was falling as Erik Carriere left the flat, slipping silently into the dark, his footsteps silent and his mind wandering. The false hope of seeing Christine at that night's performance of Faust ate away at his entire being. His mind mocked him with memories of her voice, the pure heavenly sound pulling at his heartstrings.

Sighing, Erik drew the cloak tighter around his body, trying - and failing - to block out the cold. He was used to it really, the cold, the catacombs had been quite cold all the time despite his several layers of clothes. Another sigh slid through his lips, lingering in the chilled air before him as he picked his way through the shadows towards the Garnier.

He had mixed feelings about going to the opera that night. Faust called up so many memories, some memories that he would rather forget. For example, Christine's tear streaked face as she leaned down to gently place a kiss upon his deformed forehead. His body shivered at the memory, his fingers going up to his forehead where her lips had touched. He took a deep breath; he still wondered how she had been able to look upon his face without screaming and running. But, his mother had been able to look upon him and see only beauty, so it only made sense that Christine could as well.

Thinking about Christine hurt a lot more than he thought it would. Shaking his head, Erik tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere, away from the gloomy thoughts that so often corrupted his mind. Carlotta would no longer be singing, that was a relief. They'd left shortly after his faked death. Gerard had his job back and-

And then he heard the scream.

His head snapped in the direction of the alley way, his form slipping easy through the darkness, blending in and making it impossible for the naked eye to see. In the alley he could see the woman, her hair flashing golden as it streaked through a patch of light. She fell to the ground as a man punched her. They went to strike her again.

They never got the chance.

Erik caught the punch, twisting the man's wrist with a growl. "I suggest you leave her alone," he said, his voice deathly even and dangerously calm, but beneath the white mask covering his face his bright eyes were aflame, reflecting the moonlight in such a way that it captured the raging spark.

The man laughed, turning to glance at his comrades, smirking. He turned back towards Erik and started to say 'who do you think you are' but never finished for Erik's fist connected with his jaw, causing his head to snap backwards. The motion threw him off balance and he fell backwards, as Erik pulled the sword from his cane, a rasping hiss filling the air; a hiss that was soon lost in the sounds of the scuffle.

The first man threw himself at Erik once again, who sidestepped, slashing the sword across his face. His blood splattered across the cobblestones, the yelp that exploded from his lips reverberating around the alleyway, ricocheting off the walls. The masked man pivoted, shove the sword deep into the stomach of the man who'd been sneaking up behind him, ripping it free with a sickening squelch. As he turned to face his final attacker, he was caught off guard and the large fist connected with his stomach, pushing all the breath from his body for moments that left him vulnerable.

Erik's attacker pulled free a knife and advanced forward, slowly despite the fact he was given a chance to strike in the other's moment of weakness. He, however, never got the chance to stick the masked individual with the knife for the woman swept her leg across the ground, tripping the man with the knife. Her action gave Erik enough time to regain his breath. With a growl he pushed the tip of the metal through the man's leg, causing him to shriek. "Get out of here," Erik snarled, "I will kill you if I ever see again." He pulled the sword out, anger flashing through his eyes as the man scrambled to his feet and ran.

He turned to the woman, his cape flicking around his ankles as he sheathed the sword. "I apologize, mademoiselle," he spoke kindly, offering her a gloved hand. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride," she replied, taking his hand and he helped her up. She offered a shaky

smile, licking her lips. "Thank you," she nodded towards the bodies, "for saving my life."

"You're welcome, mademoiselle," he smiled faintly, biting his lip for a moment before asking, "Where were you going? If I may ask." He did not want to seem as though he was going into her personal life, but had to admit he was a little curious as to why she had gone through the alleys. Everyone knew they weren't safe after dark.

"The Garnier," she replied with a faint smile, shuffling sheepishly. She knew she shouldn't have gone this way. The alley wasn't the route she should have taken and she knew it. Ah well, too late now. The damage had been done. She was just glad he hadn't been hurt.

Erik swept his cloak back as he bowed, as though he had not just slain three men to protect her life. "My name is Erik," he began, "and I would be more than happy to escort you to your destination, as that is also where I am headed. That is, if you don't mind the company of another stranger." A smile tugged at his lips, while inside his thoughts were in turmoil. The thought that was the easiest to grasp was what the hell am I doing!?

She smiled, giving a little curtsy, just as her mother had taught her. "Amelie," she replied with a crooked smile. "Oh!" she exclaimed at his offer, "You are too kind, really, monsieur!"

Erik offered a faint chuckle. "It is my pleasure," he replied, beginning to walk, smiling over at her as she fell into step beside him, thanking him yet again as she did so. "You're welcome, mademoiselle."

As they walked there was only silence and the soft clop of horse hooves in the distance, accompanied by muffled chatter. It was only when she could stand it no longer that Amelie broke the silence. "Do you come to the opera often?"

"Oh yes, I come whenever I can. I practically lived there!" he chuckled.

Amelie nodded slowly, already piecing together a theory in her mind. "Do you have a particular opera you favor?" she questioned, eager to know more about her savior.

"Yes..." he murmured, wistfully, falling silent for a moment before finishing the thought with, "Faust."

Fancy that, Amelie thought to herself with a faint smile. "Same, actually," she replied with a faint nod, sadness in her own voice, yearning for the father she had lost, for a moment before she pushed it away with a shake of her head, her blonde hair shivering as she did so. If he caught the sadness in her voice, he did not comment, which Amelie was glad for.

Instead he changed the subject. "Do you have anyone to give you a ride home?" he questioned, glancing towards her, his eyes icy and blue, cold but veiling a lifetime of mysterious from the eye of passers bye. "I do believe it is dangerous for you to walk around here at dark, after what I just witnessed."

She slowly shook her head. "Unfortunately I do not, it's just me." She shrugged a bit, being alone had never bothered her before, not when most of her life was spent alone.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, slowly nodding along with her words. "Perhaps you would allow me to walk you home?" His eyes jumped to her, their eyes of the same color - yet ever so different - meeting in the dark.

A small sliver of a smile slithered across her lips. "I would be honored, monsieur, but I do not wish to impose."

"Oh! Not at all! It's my pleasure," he smiled then, a flash of brilliance in the darkness.

"Then I shall meet you after the performance then?" Amelie smiled, happy to have the company at least for a little while. He nodded, allowing a smile back at her. Again the pair fell into silence, listening to the sounds of the night as they made their way towards the Garnier.

"If I were to ask you about the Phantom of the Opera, what would your response be?" she asked.

Erik paused for a moment, not knowing how to respond for a few moments. Surely she must have her suspicions? There wasn't a way that she couldn't have seen his mask, but then he could hope that it had gone unnoticed amidst the struggle. He was over his stupor in moments saying, "My response would be that I had heard of him and he was found to be a man of flesh and blood rather than a spectral shade and was shot and killed on the roof of the opera by an ex-manager."

"Do you believe he haunts the opera house?"

Erik actually laughed. "That's absurd!" He shook his head. "No, mademoiselle, I do not believe in ghosts, or any such apparitions." He shrugged, "I have never such a being, hence my skepticism on them." He actually found it ironic that he did not believe in ghosts when he had allowed the whole of France to believe he himself was one. The thought caused a small chuckle to escape him, a faint smile of amusement perched delicately on his lips.

"I do not believe he died," Amelie said, looking up and over at him with a faint twitch of her lips. "I do believe him to be a man of the flesh, but I do not believe him to have died that night on the rooftop."

He glanced towards her, watching the way her eyes sparkled for a moment before realizing that he was staring and quickly glancing away, although she didn't seem to have noticed that his eyes lingered longer than they should have. "Oh?" he asked, tilting his head, "why do you think that?"

As if talking to a man in a mask who practically lived at the opera house isn't enough proof, a small voice in the back of his head smirked, mocking him silently. He shook it off with an inward shake of his head.

"Well," Amelie smirked, glancing towards him, "you said you practically lived at the opera house and you are wearing a mask."

The masked man laughed, glancing over at her. True, he thought. "However," he began, "I heard that the phantom never went out in public, let alone saved anyone." Although there was the threat of the police finding out that he was still alive, Erik was rather enjoying their conversation despite himself.

"Ah well yes, while that's true if the whole of France believes him dead, perhaps he's attempting normal life...although," a teasing tone entered her words, a mischievous glint in her eyes, " saving people isn't exactly normal, but if you were him, I'd thank you all the same." She smiled towards him once again, before looking ahead of her again, as to not trip on something.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head a little. He really honestly didn't think he'd laughed this much in this little of time in all of his life. Not that, that was a bad thing. He nodded faintly at her words. "I suppose not, but even if the world believes them to be dead, maske men don't really get to live normal lives," he pointed out with a chuckle. He glanced at her. "But what have you heard of the phantom of the opera? They say he became a real terror the last year of his life."

"That's probably true, although I wouldn't know for sure considering I'm not a masked man," she smirked at his soft laugh. She shrugged at his next question. "I don't believe him to be as terrifying as the stories say he is."

Erik hadn't been expecting that and looked at her, his eyes searching hers when they met. "Oh? And why is that?" he asked, a small smile playing at his lips at what an odd night this was turning out to be.

Her shoulders bobbed in a shrug. "Well…" she was silent for several long moments, in which Erik spared a glance towards her. When at last she spoke again she said, "I think he's just misunderstood, to be honest. I think people say he's horrible because they're afraid. I believe they're afraid because they don't understand." She gave a little bounce of her slim shoulders, causing a small ringlet of hair to disconnect from the rest and fall disobediently into her face. "But...that's just me. I could be wrong, but if you're the phantom, monsieur Erik, then I do believe I've been proven correct." She smiled at him, her teeth flashing the semi darkness.

His heart swelled at her words, having never heard such a theory as that from anyone. He caught himself by surprise as he said, "Well, mademoiselle Amelie, you've caught me." His mind whirled. Had he honestly just said that? He could have slapped himself.

"It is a pleasure, monsieur le fantome de l'opera," Amelie grinned over at him, her blue eyes radiating a happy glow, her smile growing as he stopped for a brief moment to dramatically swosh his cape, bowing like the gentleman he was before continuing on his way, a small smile on his lips, half hidden by the shadow of his mask.

"How does it feel to be walking with a man that's supposed to be dead? ...That's supposed to have murdered?" He inquired.

She admitted, "It actually doesn't bother me."

"Ha! Well, you'll be the first," he laughed, somewhat startled by her reply.

"There's a first for everything."


	3. Chapter 2: The Demons They Lie in Wait

**Hello there! I realize my edit to the very first chapter didn't go through, so I'm saying it here on this very short chapter that I typed up to keep you guys guessing! I do not own Erik Carriere, Gerard Carriere, Christine Daae, or Philippe de Chagny! Amelie Bellerose and Sullivan Mortissimo however are mine. Thank you for reading and I hope to see you all favoriting and/or commenting! **

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Smoke spiraled up around his angled face, the light of the cigarette flaring as he took a long drag, his exhale bringing forth a cloud of smoke that trickled from his parted lips. At his right side, a figure moved, once again pronouncing his name with dead accuracy. The man in the hard wooden chair shifted, flicking the bottomless pits of his black eyes towards the figure that had spoken, his right hand curled into a fist, the other smashing the cigarette down into the tray beside him. When he spoke it was as though the four words that emanated forth from his lips could still the world, "I want her found."

"Yes sir," the voice of the figure chirped out, the speaker trying their very hardest to keep their voice from quivering. When he was told there was nothing more he was needed for, a hasty bow was cast before the thin servant rushed from the room.

The man in the chair shook his head, a dry chuckle leaving him. Lighting another cigarette, he settled back against the uncomfortable looking chair, his eyes staring off into the fire crackling in the hearth, the dancing firelight spraying across his face and reflecting in those two demonic orbs.

She had gotten it all wrong, they had all gotten it all wrong. They had only heard her side of the story, but what about his? Had he even been asked to tell his side? Oh, no, heaven forbid that little blonde bitch lie about being abused by the boyfriend she'd been with for six goddamn years! But she had. Of course she had. She could spin a lie so believable that another with the same skill would be unable to detect the untruthfulness.

Had he ever struck her? Of course, but only when she was deserving and he had apologized for it every time, holding her shaking form close to his. Never did he do it without showing remorse. And then she had walked out on him, tears in her perfect eyes of blue. And he'd never heard from her again, but the police had come knocking upon the door and he'd told them the truth; the whole truth of the woman that he saved, nurtured, loved; the story she failed to tell all those she met.

That she was the abuser; not he. That she was the murderer; not he. That she was the demon sent from hell to terrorize the innocents; and not he. That she had gotten it all wrong; that she was not - in fact - the victim but the criminal as she had them all believing he was; that he was the hero and she the villain.

But you see Sullivan Mortissimo was just as good a liar as she; just as good an actor.

His knuckles cracked and his muscles rippled as he shifted, his eyes narrowing to a glare. "Your time has run out," he snarled, his lips barely moving yet emanating sound, "Anastasie Odette Leroux."


End file.
